


we're all just stories in the end

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Journalist AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: He agrees to meet Virgil at his club’s training ground. Jordan’s been there before, for basic interviews and press conferences, so he knows the way. He’s still intimidated by the massive sign when he drives up to the gates, though; cowers under the massive letters spelling outM-E-L-W-O-O-D.
Relationships: Virgil van Dijk/Jordan Henderson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	we're all just stories in the end

**Author's Note:**

> a journalism au, also known as lucy's ode to the dying art of print journalism.
> 
> this was prompted by an anon – sort of. anon prompted something a little different, but i ran away with it because i miss the industry a lot and i want to pretend i'm back there for a minute or two.
> 
> happy reading, my loves! feedback always appreciate, i hope you enjoy! xxx

He’s introduced to Virgil through a friend of a friend of a friend.

His career is – not great, let’s put it that way. Through no fault of his own, really, it’s just that print media is dying. More and more positions are becoming freelance, or thrown to the interns. Unpaid, because god knows that it’s a struggle to raise the cash to even go to print these days.

He gets it, he does. Still hates it though, because as nice as it is to have every piece of information you could possibly need at your fingertips, it doesn’t really compare to physically holding a magazine. He might be one of the very few people in the industry that still think that way, though. 

Still, he has to do something to fix this. His editor is desperate for content, something new, something different – exclusive, exclusive, exclusive. That’s all that’s drilled into them, every Monday morning when they have their editorial meeting. Make sure you get something, and that nobody else gets there first.

Jordan feels like he’s thinking of exclusives night and day. When he wakes up and drags himself in the shower, lathering shampoo into his hair. When he’s sitting in the office, meant to be writing about the pros and cons of different brands of cleats. When he’s in bed, tossing and turning and thinking about the financial fuck up that he’d inevitably face if the magazine decided that cutting costs was the next option. 

And his one and only idea isn’t the greatest, but it’s a start. Just – a basic series of articles, spread out over the course of a month, or even longer, if it takes off. Something to keep the readers coming back for more. Featuring someone that all football fans want to be. It’s perfect, because his editor is old school, happy to go back to basics, and tells him that it’s the best pitch he’s heard in months. 

(He’s pretty sure that if it was up to Roy, they’d really go back to basics. Scrap computers and iMacs and fancy digital cameras – polaroids and cuttings, stamps, ink and hand-drawn illustrations. He talks about it sometimes, wistfully, until someone shouts across the office that they’re sending him the latest draft of their article through email. Then he just looks pissed off).

He gets the approval from Roy and sets about putting it into motion. He has a few contacts from being in the industry for the past decade or so, but they’re not quite enough. He needs someone special. Someone with a spark.

Vaguely, he remembers Adam mentioning that he knew someone who is close friends with Virgil van Dijk. It’s perfect, actually. The exact kind of spark he’s looking for. The spark that this magazine needs. 

He gets to work right away. Doesn’t mention it to Roy (or anyone else in the office, because gossip spreads). He doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up only to have to disappoint them, but slips outside and gives Adam a quick call. Apparently it’s someone who goes to the same gym as Adam – his name is Danny Ings. He’s an agent, and his company represents van Dijk. 

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Adam passes on Danny’s email address and they work out a deal. A half page advertising space and unlimited use of all photographs that are taken, plus a few unpaid articles for the company’s blog written by Jordan personally. Testimonials and the like, because Danny admits that their marketing department is a little slow off the ground.

It’s a great deal, really. Jordan’s grateful that there isn’t a massive exchange of money, because he was dreading that. The magazine doesn’t have that, and maybe Danny already knows. Print is dead, no matter how hard Jordan tries to revive it.

He agrees to meet Virgil at his club’s training ground. Jordan’s been there before, for basic interviews and press conferences, so he knows the way. He’s still intimidated by the massive sign when he drives up to the gates, though; cowers under the massive letters spelling out _M-E-L-W-O-O-D_.

Everyone there is incredibly kind. He rings the bell, introduces himself nervously through the speaker, but the receptionist is lovely and ushers him in. Takes his coat, asks about the journey. Takes his picture for the visitor ID, tells him that he’s very photogenic, and then asks him if he wants a cup of tea. 

When he says yes, he’s shown through to the canteen. It’s empty but through the ceiling to floor windows at the back, he can see the whole team on the pitch, training. A lovely lady who introduces herself as Carol brings him a mug of tea, and tells him that they’re running late.

He waits patiently, catches up on some emails and then plays a round of Candy Crush. Carol and her colleague Caroline keep him company, telling him about the running of the club and that he’ll get on like a house on fire with Virgil. 

He can only hope. 

Virgil spots him as soon as he comes into the canteen, freshly showered and in his street clothes. This is just an informal meeting, to map out what and when and where, and then they start from there. It doesn’t feel very informal, though, because Virgil shakes his hand and introduces himself as if Jordan wouldn’t know. He sits up straight and smiles politely, and this isn’t quite what Jordan expected.

Well, he doesn’t know what he expected – but it definitely isn’t this.

They work out dates; Jordan dedicates a few days to watching Virgil’s training sessions, gives up his weekends to travel to games – both home and away – and then the day after to detail recovery sessions. Pencils in the commitments that Virgil has with sponsorships, like a day to film a new promotional video with Nike. There’s even a single awards ceremony shoved in there, circled in red, because Jordan is fairly excited for that.

Before he leaves, he tells Virgil that it was really, really great to meet him, and means it, and then heads back to the office, because he still hasn’t told Roy. 

He’s about to get his career back on track.  
  
  
  
  
  
Virgil invites him for lunch at his house, so they can break the ice and get to know each other. Jordan isn’t as nervous as he was the first time they met, although those butterflies are still there a little bit. But he knows what Virgil’s voice sounds like now, and that makes him feel an awful lot better. 

He’s not surprised when his satnav directs him to a pair of towering gates, but he is surprised that Virgil texts him the code to open them. He punches it in, feeling like a fraud, and parks his car in the underground lot. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t earn enough money to even breathe in a place like this, let alone live in it. 

The building isn’t anything special, really. A nice lobby with a few sofas, and a service reception, and a lift tucked away in the corner. He tells the concierge that he’s here to see Virgil, and a look of surprise flashes over the older man’s face, but he tells him which floor to press anyway.

The lift is big, mirrors reflecting his own face at him as he travels up the building. Checks that he looks presentable, adjusts the collar of his shirt, shuffles the folder in his arms. He’s been invited for (presumably) expensive food in an expensive apartment with expensive company. The very least he can do is look the part. 

The apartment itself is modest. It’s spacious, with wooden floors and white walls, but it’s not flashy. It’s obviously expensive, but that’s due to the fact that the massive windows have beautiful views of the river rather than, like, a gold plated oven or something. Jordan expected –– _more_ , to be honest. More of what, he doesn’t know, but it definitely wasn’t this.

“Hi,” Virgil says, beaming smile directed at Jordan. He takes his coat and waves him off when he goes to take off his shoes, ushering him into the living room. There’s a half wall separating it from the kitchen, and it’s all so _clean_. Modern lines and nice taste. “Make yourself at home.” 

“Thank you,” Jordan says, smiling back at Virgil as he drops his folder carefully onto the dining table. He turns to face him again, hands tight around the back of the chair he’s resting against, and tries not to be nervous. “What’s for lunch?” 

“I didn’t know what you’d like or if you had any allergies,” Virgil says. It’s his turn to be nervous now, and he wrings his hands, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I might’ve gotten Danny to ask Adam what you liked, so if it’s disgusting, you can blame him.” 

Jordan can’t help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. “That’s very kind, thank you,” he says, taking a step forward. Virgil flushes and slides round the partition, and all Jordan can hear is the clinking of cutlery. “It smells great, Virgil. I’m sure I’ll love it.” 

Virgil’s head pops over the wall and he smiles, cheeks redder than before. Jordan never expected this – he thought Virgil would be all flash money and cocky attitude. He thought he’d have to spin the articles in the kindest light possible to _not_ make him look like a dickhead, but he’s so different to what Jordan thought he’d be. He’s _sweet_. 

“Sit down, Jordan, sit,” Virgil says, ushering Jordan away from the kitchen. He pulls out a chair for him, picks up Jordan’s folder carefully like it’s something fragile, and places it on a spare chair. “It’ll be done in a second, I’ll bring it in.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Lunch is good, and the conversation is even better.

He and Virgil get on so well. Jordan didn’t expect it, to be honest, but the surprise is pleasant at least. He hears all about Virgil’s past – his father leaving his mum to look after three young kids, and all the shitty part-time jobs he worked at fourteen to be able to help – and the journey he took to get where he is now. 

There are things, Virgil says, that are probably too deep for a first meeting. He says it with a look in his eyes, one that Jordan can’t describe, and he feels pity. He doesn’t even know what these things are, but he knows they must be serious.

Still, he squeezes Virgil’s hand and nods, tells him that it’s fine. He understands – this series is, after all, about him and him only. He admits what he wants to, and nobody can tell him otherwise.

Virgil looks more than grateful, and Jordan goes home more upbeat than he has been in longer than he cares to admit.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The first article in the series is a training session. Jordan gets a more permanent pass to Melwood and the staff are still nothing but accommodating. He even eats the same food as Virgil, sits with his teammates and enjoys the banter. He’s quiet, at first. Doesn’t know if he’s allowed to talk, because they probably know that he doesn’t belong there.

“Jordan agrees with me,” Virgil says, dragging him out of his thoughts. He curls a gentle hand around Jordan’s shoulder and his palm is warm, even through the thick material of his hoodie. “Don’t you, Jord?” 

“I do,” Jordan says, heart beating ten times faster. He feels his cheeks heating up at all the eyes on him but takes a deep breath, because he really doesn’t want to make himself look like a twat in front of the entire first team squad of Liverpool FC. He’s done enough embarrassing things in the past, and this won’t be one of them. “And if you really think that pineapple belongs on pizza, then I don’t have time for you.”

Virgil laughs, soft and right next to Jordan’s ear, and doesn’t let go of his shoulder. The rest of the lads react, an explosion of noise, and he breathes out. 

He might actually survive this.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The first article is a hit. He gets two dozen direct messages on Twitter telling him that they’ve been waiting for such a refreshingly honest article, and that it’s inspired them even more to follow their dreams. He gets another few hundred retweets, and can’t help but feel a little bit smug about it.

Roy is happy with it too. He puts it on the front cover and apparently it sells a decent number of extra copies than normal. Roy is actually so happy with it that he takes the whole office out for a drink, and pays for the first round.

“No pressure,” he says to Jordan, loud enough that the whole group can hear. “But you might just be the only thing that’ll keep us going!”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Virgil calls to invite him to the Merseyside derby.

“It’s the perfect game to start with,” he says, and Jordan can tell he’s got his tongue in his cheek. He rolls his eyes but agrees to be there, because Virgil is right – even though he won’t admit it. Being thrown in at the deep end is what he’s best at.

He’s been to Anfield before, but this time he isn’t packed in with the rest of the press. He gets a special pass and is shown to Virgil’s family box. He’s the only one there, and he wonders if it’s usually like that or if it’s been cleared out just for him. There’s a note on the seat anyway, on paper with the Liverpool logo at the top. He assumes it’s Virgil’s handwriting that’s scrawled across the page.

**Jordan,**

**Get something to eat, have a drink – only one though, you’re still working! I’ll be straight up after the game :)**

**Enjoy yourself, J.**

**Virgil X**

He does what he's told, although he sticks to the soft drinks. He doesn't even dare to move while the game is on though, stays in his seat, fingers curled around the edges. He's a lifelong Liverpool supporter, but no other game has ever quite compared to this. Actually knowing someone on the team is a completely different ball game.

No pun intended.

Virgil scores, and Jordan tries not to go too crazy. He is on his own, but people can still see him. He’s pretty sure he can see Gini’s wife from the corner of his eye, but he’s trying not to make eye contact. It’ll be a little bit too awkward to explain. He stares down at the pitch, and sees Virgil with a hand shielding his eyes, looking up to the stands.

He convinces himself that Virgil isn’t looking for him.

When the game ends, the first player up is Gini. He greets Jordan with a hug, clapping his back kindly, and it’s – great. Weird, but great. Jordan’s not quite sure how he managed to get his life to this point.

“Hey!” Gini greets, smile so incredibly bright. He hooks an arm around Jordan’s shoulders and introduces him to his family, describing him as _Virgil’s friend_. It’s a little bit easier to explain than the truth, to be honest. “Virg asked me to come up and get you. He wants to show you around the players’ lounge.” 

Virgil is sat with Alisson and Trent, plate and bottle of water in front of him. He gestures Jordan over as soon as he spots him, scooching on the bench so there’s enough room for Jordan to sit. He feels a little bit awkward, sitting there while everyone else is eating, but Virgil just gives him a one armed hug.

“Sorry, I was starving,” Virgil admits, flushing a little bit. “Did you enjoy the game?” 

“It was great, honestly. Thank you for inviting me,” Jordan says, nudging Virgil’s elbow gently. He’s been to Anfield plenty of times, as a fan and as a journalist, but nothing has compared to this. “Winning goal, eh? That’ll be a good one to write about.”

“Well, you have got a way with words,” Virgil says, grinning brightly. “I’m sure you’ll make me sound like a hero.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next article covers a Champions League game. It’s away in Portugal, and this time there’s no fancy box, but he’s packed in with the away fans. They’re up in the gods in the stadium, far enough away that the players look tiny on the pitch, but really, it’s great.

The atmosphere amongst the away fans is incredible. A couple of them recognise him from the articles and take him in like one of their own, and it’s just another experience on the list of ones that he never thought he’d have. This first idea, the one he never thought would even make it to planning, let alone _print_ , is taking him on such an incredible journey. He feels unbelievably lucky.

Liverpool win five nil, and Jordan sings all the songs with the away fans. He almost forgets that he’s there to do a job, but ultimately, he is, and he ducks out of the celebrations because he has to go see Virgil. It’s almost a downside, actually – the post match interview, the quotes; it brings them all back down to earth with a bump. 

“Hey, you!” Virgil calls when he spots him in the hotel lobby, pulling him in for a quick hug. They’re staying in the same hotel, although Jordan’s room is considerably cheaper than Virgil’s. That’s alright – he isn’t a professional footballer. He lives on five hours’ sleep and two gallons of coffee. “Good game, right? Quarter finals of the Champions League in my first season here. Never expected that.” 

“Well you should,” Jordan says, punching Virgil in the ribs gently. Virgil acts like it hurt, flinching away and pouting, but his eyes are sparkling and Jordan knows that he never, ever takes himself seriously. “You’re a great player, Virgil. You deserve to be where you are.”

Virgil blushes bright red, and Jordan pretends that he doesn’t notice.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They get close. Closer than Jordan ever expected. He thought it’d just be work, that they’d maintain a professional relationship and that would be it – but they’re together almost every day. Virgil invites him round and cooks for him, and they watch whatever game is on that night. He finds Jordan after Liverpool games, introduces him to his friends, his family, the people that matter. He becomes a part of the friendship group that Virgil has acquired through his teammates, and doesn’t even feel like an add on.

Somewhere along the line, he develops feelings. It’s an accident, of course. Virgil doesn’t even know that he’s gay, purely because it’s something that’s never come up, and he doesn’t feel the need to go around shouting about it – not in dressing rooms, anyway. 

He develops feelings but it’s okay, because he’s pretty good at ignoring it. Pushes them down until it’s just a tingle, like pins and needles in his chest, and he doesn’t even have to acknowledge it if he doesn’t want to. The only time he does is when he’s got a hand around his dick and his mind slips to unchartered territories, but even then, he’s pretty good at ignoring it afterwards.

They’re friends, but he still needs to be professional. Virgil is a Premier League footballer and Premier League footballers certainly don’t look at his gender, let alone people that look like him. He’s not exactly a model type, but that’s alright. He never claimed to be anything else.

It’s a crush, and it’s harmless. If he ignores it for long enough, it’ll just go away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He glances at his watch. Virgil is already twenty minutes late.

They’re supposed to be meeting for dinner, somewhere low-key in the Baltic Triangle. Jordan’s been looking forward to it for weeks, because it’s near enough impossible to get a reservation. It’s a lot easier when you’ve got a friend like Virgil van Dijk, though. 

The waiter looks at him with pity. It _looks_ like he’s been stood up and he’s very aware of that, but he also knows that Virgil wouldn’t just leave him sitting here for no reason. There must be something wrong.

When the clock ticks over to half past, the worry in his stomach turns to nausea. His mind is spinning, running through all sorts of scenarios, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. Virgil is his friend, and he cares about him. He has to check if he’s okay, even if it does mean finding out that Virgil is just – done with him. He can handle that.

(He can’t, but he’ll have to).

He pays for his singular drink and tips double, tells the waiter that his date was unwell and had to cancel. It’s a blatant lie, but for all he knows, it could be the truth as well. That’s why he’s going to Virgil’s. He’s got to find out.

The drive feels like forever, but it’s barely ten minutes. The roads are weirdly quiet too, and Jordan can’t help but wonder if it’s an omen – a sign that something bad is about to happen. Nothing would surprise him these days, to be honest. 

He punches in the code for the gate on instinct. He’s used to it by now, has the numbers memorised, and he doesn’t have to think twice about it. Sometimes he catches himself and remembers how weird it is that he is close enough to Virgil to have that information, but the imposter syndrome has just about died down by now. 

He nods hello at George the concierge and heads straight to the lift, stabbing the button that takes him to Virgil’s floor. He’s still worried sick, but George hasn’t said anything, so his heart feels a little lighter. If something was wrong, George would know about it.

Nothing is out of place in the short hallway leading to Virgil’s apartment. He runs the tips of his fingers along the walls like he’s trying to feel if anything is off but still comes up with nothing, and before he knows it, he’s at the familiar wooden door that he’s faced a hundred times now. He raises his fist to knock but before he can, it swings open, and he takes an instinctual step back.

He doesn’t recognise the person that’s there when the doors open – but he does recognise the person the stranger is kissing.

Virgil. Kissing another man.

Jordan must make a small noise of surprise, because Virgil springs apart from the mystery man and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. He looks terrified, caught staring at Jordan with an awful look on his face, and he moves like he’s about to speak but no words come out.

“I should go,” the man says nervously, looking between them, and then they’re alone.

“Virgil?” Jordan asks softly, taking a step closer. Virgil steps back like he’s scared of what might happen but then he snaps out of it, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He opens the door wider and gestures for Jordan to come in. It’s very clear that they have to talk about this. 

It’s – awkward, and even that is an understatement. Jordan sits on the sofa that’s as familiar as his own by now, but his spine is rigid in a way it never is and his shoulders are straight. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to say to Virgil. He’s just caught in a never ending loop of back and forth in his own head. 

“I don’t think _it isn’t what it looks like_ is going to cut it,” Virgil says, voice entirely self deprecating. He won’t meet Jordan’s eye, keeps staring down at his hands that are curled into fists. “Considering you got a HD, 4K view.” 

“Yeah,” Jordan says distantly. To be honest, he’s still a little bit in shock. Hurt, maybe, and jealous, even though he knows one hundred percent that he doesn’t have the right to be. He’s not _that_ deluded.

“I’m bisexual,” Virgil says, harsh like he had to force the words out. He swallows the lump in his throat and Jordan watches the movement of his Adam’s apple. When he speaks again, his voice is challenging. “I like men as well as women. Is that okay with you?” 

Jordan smiles, amused, and then catches himself. Virgil looks even more offended and doesn’t wait for him to explain, pushing himself to stand and pacing by the full length windows.

“Well I hope you’re fucking happy,” he spits, although he sounds more hurt than angry. Scared, even, and Jordan pities him. He knows exactly what it feels like. “You got your exclusive, so now you can print it in your shitty little magazine and let everyone know who I really am. You got exactly what you wanted.” 

“I’m not going to print it,” Jordan says quietly. He waits patiently for Virgil to stop pacing and face him so he can explain properly. “I’m not going to print it, Virgil. It’s nobody’s business but yours – and that guy whose face you were sucking, I guess. Boyfriend?” 

Virgil looks shocked, but he snaps himself out of it to smile weakly. “Not quite,” he says, and that’s the end of it. “How do I know? That you won’t print it.” 

“Do you want to know a secret about me?” Jordan asks, patting the space next to him. Virgil sits and watches him curiously, so he leans in, conspiratorial and voice lowered. “I like men, too. Although I suppose it’s less of a secret than yours is.” 

Virgil laughs, wet – but real. 

And that’s the end of it. The conversation moves on.

Virgil shows him out when he says he’d better head off. Neither of them seem to know why, because Jordan’s been here enough that it’s practically his second home, but today feels different. Neither of them expected this.

Before he leaves, when he’s standing in front of the closed door with a determined look on his face, he turns to Virgil. Looks up at him and doesn’t break eye contact, makes sure that Virgil is listening.

“This is on your terms,” he says quietly, reaching out and squeezing Virgil’s bicep. “This has always been on your terms, Virgil.”

Virgil hugs him so hard that he can’t breathe, and they both pretend they haven’t realised there are tears in the younger man’s eyes.

Jordan starts to accept that he can’t hide his feelings anymore.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
If he thought they were close before, it’s nothing compared to this.

Virgil becomes even more relaxed around him, doesn’t hold anything back. Tells him about the dates that he’s been on recently and how he hasn’t enjoyed a single one of them, but can’t put his finger on a reason why. Jordan wishes he knew, because he wants nothing more than for Virgil to be happy.

He’s just – less guarded. It’s even in his eyes now. They just seem a lot clearer, and the line of Virgil’s back is less tense. His casual touches are less thought out, and he just – is. That’s all there is to it. He just is.

This is the realest Virgil that Jordan has ever known.

He loves him even more for it, which is stupid. Before, he thought he’d never have a chance, but now he knows there is (somehow, an absolutely terribly miniscule one), those feelings have reared their heads. Like thousands of tiny butterflies each with the roar of a lion, and he can’t not listen to them.

It’s stupid, and he knows that, but it doesn’t stop it from happening. This is something he can’t control.

But as long as Virgil never finds out, that’s fine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It happens on a boring Sunday night. 

Liverpool played on the Friday night so Virgil had let himself order an unhealthy amount of food and slob in front of the telly. They’re watching the North London derby and Virgil is entertaining him with some frankly awful commentary. He’s not got a future career in it, but Jordan supposes that it’s much better than listening to Martin Tyler.

When the game is done, he mutes it, turns to Jordan. There’s something in that look in his eyes that Jordan can’t quite put his finger on and he puts down the bag of prawn crackers that are in his hand, angling his body towards Virgil. This is something he needs to pay attention to.

“Do you remember the first time you came over?” Virgil asks quietly, shifting his gaze away for a second. He always comes back to Jordan, though. “When I made you lunch, and I told you that there were things I’d tell you one day?” 

“Yeah,” Jordan says, confused. He knows, deep down, that he’s going to hear them, but he doesn’t know if he wants to. He’s almost scared.

“I’m ready to talk about them,” Virgil says, knocking his knuckles against Jordan’s thigh. He’s smiling but there’s tears in his eyes, and his skin looks pale. Jordan wants nothing more than to make him feel better. “It might… Take me a while to get it out. But I’m ready to tell you.” 

“Okay,” Jordan whispers. He curls his fingers around Virgil’s wrist and squeezes tight, just to let him know that he’s there and listening. “Take your time, Virgil.” 

Virgil takes a deep breath and his hand finds Jordan’s, tangling their fingers like he needs the support. Jordan is more than happy to give him the strength he needs, to be the rock that keeps him going. He loves Virgil, as a friend and – as something more. He’d give absolutely everything to make sure he was okay. 

“When I was twenty, I almost died,” Virgil says quietly. He’s gazing out of the window, but he’s not really looking. “For a few days, I had absolutely awful stomach cramps. Thought it was just a bug, you know, kept telling myself that it would pass. Kept drinking water, didn’t eat. The medical team at Groningen told me that it was the flu, so I tried to sleep it off.” 

“I’m guessing it wasn’t the flu,” Jordan murmurs. Virgil smiles, but there was no humour in his tone. There’s no humour in Virgil’s smile, either.

“No, not quite,” Virgil huffs. “On the third day I was off training, I was in so much pain that I got a cab to the hospital. They ran loads of tests and I was there for ages, but they didn’t find anything. Thought it was gastroenteritis, so they sent me home and told me to wait it out, so I did. Who argues with doctors, right? I went home, but by this point, I couldn’t even sleep because I was in so much pain.

“My mum knew something wasn’t right. She came to see me, because she lived a few hours away and I was living alone. I could barely drag myself to the door to let her in, Jordan, and everyone was telling me it was the flu. Well, mums know best, and she took one look at me and took me straight to the hospital – a different one, this time.” 

“What did they say?” Jordan asks. He trails his thumb up to the think skin on the inside of Virgil’s wrist and watches the younger man stare at the movement in wonder, like it’s dragged him back to reality.

“My appendix had burst, and because it hadn’t been treated, it had caused peritonitis too,” Virgil murmurs, finally looking at Jordan. He looks haunted, almost. LIke he’s back there and still terrified. “And then the infection spread even further, so it was in my kidneys. I was rushed into surgery, and they saved my life. They told me afterwards that I would’ve been dead if I’d have waited any longer. That was so terrifying to hear at twenty, J. It really fucked with my head.

“And then I saw myself. I was alive but I had all these tubes sticking out of me. Cannulas for the IVs and blood pressure monitors and god knows what else, I can’t even remember. And I lost so much weight – I was basically a skeleton. I didn’t even recognise myself anymore, and I hated it.” 

Jordan swallows, tries to blink back the tears in his eyes. He doesn’t want to make this about him.

“I genuinely thought I was going to die, Jordan. All these things that I hadn’t done because I was a kid, and now I’d never get a chance. I wrote a will. I left everything to my mum, because I had no one else. Like – when you hear about people writing their wills, they’re middle aged and they’ve got kids, something to live on in their memory. I would have left my mother and a tragically short football career, because my own damn body betrayed me,” Virgil whispers. He looks away, trails off. Doesn’t speak again for long, stretched out moments.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” Jordan says suddenly. The words come out before he can stop them, fierce and honest. He clutches Virgil’s hand even tighter and holds it against his chest. The tears start spilling over his face and he uses his free hand to wipe them away as fast he comes. “I’m so sorry you went through that, Virgil, but I am so, so glad you’re still here. I’m so glad I met you.” 

Virgil looks at Jordan. Tilts his head and considers him, eyes scanning his face carefully. Reaches out and thumbs a tear away, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet, clear but deadly serious.

“I’m glad I met you too,” he says, and stretches across to kiss Jordan.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Throughout this series, I’ve brought you the behind the scenes look at Virgil van Dijk, as a person and as a player. As most of you have told me on Twitter (other social media platforms are available), you’ve enjoyed it a lot. The words that have been used to describe it are along the lines of_ incredible, eye opening, special _. I can’t disagree._

_Because over the course of the last few months, I’ve been getting to know the real Virgil. I’d never met him before this, and I never thought I would. Maybe in passing, asking him a question in a press conference or contacting him for a statement. I never expected to meet him in this capacity._

_But I have, and that’s been life changing. Because the real Virgil is someone that I never thought could possibly exist. The real Virgil is almost the same as the professional one you see: he is kind, and thoughtful. He is unbelievably talented, and not at all smug about it (honestly, he’s not). He’s a great person to have on your side, because once you’ve gained his trust, he will give up the entire world for you. All that comes through in his interviews – I know that from reading them before I’d met him._

_Virgil van Dijk, as I know him, is all that and more. Because the real Virgil is brave. He sits on his sofa, clutches a cushion to his chest, and tells me that it’s time. Time for what, I ask him. He smiles, because he knows that I know, but I won’t believe it until he says it. He takes a deep breath, and he tells me._

_He tells me that it’s time to be honest._

_The real Virgil van Dijk sits in his living room and looks over at me. He reaches out and takes my hand, because that’s his normal. He tells me that it’s time to be honest about the fact that he loves me. He loves me unapologetically, proudly, and it shines around him like a halo._

_In hushed conversations (technically off the record, but he loves me enough to roll his eyes and agree when I ask to quote him), he tells me that he’s scared. Across Europe, there isn’t a single male professional footballer that is open about his sexuality. Virgil is the first, so he can’t follow the precedent set by anyone else. He doesn’t know what this will do to his career. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle any possible abuse that is thrown at him from the stands._

_But he also tells me that he won’t know unless he tries. That’s the most important thing, he says. That even if football as an openly bisexual man isn’t for him, at least he tried. His mother didn’t raise a quitter – trust me, I’ve met her – and that’s something that he’s always lived by. It’d be hypocritical of him to go against that now._

_The real Virgil is bisexual. The real Virgil has a beautiful soul and a smile that lights up any room. People trust him on instinct, because he has the warmest personality you’ll ever encounter. He makes even the most bitter of people laugh, and would go the length of the earth to put a smile on someone’s face. He is everything that we should all aspire to be, and more._

_And maybe I am a little bit biased. Because he gives me a reason to get up in the morning. He is what drives me to carry on, because I want to make him proud. He makes me want to be everything that I dreamed of. Because I love him, too, and our life is good._

_This series started as a way for me to get my career back, but really, it means far more than that. Because I love him, too, and I have never been prouder._

_And that’s all you need to know about the real Virgil van Dijk._

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [georginiwijnaldum](https://georginiwijnaldum.tumblr.com/) xo


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